Tempus Fugit
by hobbit-guy
Summary: Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of the age. For the last one hundred thirty years, he has been a beacon against the forces of Darkness. But where did he come from? Where did this great power come from? And how does he know everything Harry, Hermio
1. Chapter 1: The End

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Tempus Fugit

The End…

Albus Dumbledore paced his office, looking tired, concerned, and sorrowful all at once. The light streaming in through the windows glinted off his white hair and played along the walls, highlighting the sleeping portraits that hung around the room. Pausing, Dumbledore came to a decision, thinking _very well, I must tell him all._ Walking to the fireplace, he threw in a pinch of powder from a small pot on the mantelpiece.

"Minerva? Could you please send Harry Potter up to see me? I wish to speak with him."

Professor McGonagall's head briefly appeared among the flames, sporting a concerned expression, but she merely said, "Certainly, Albus," before she disappeared. After she had gone, Dumbledore sighed and walked over to a half-open cabinet. Opening the doors, he removed a silver basin filled with a swirling, semi-liquid mist.

Placing the Pensieve on his desk, Dumbledore paused. _Is this really the right path?_ He sighed, sat behind the Pensieve, and placed his wand up to his temple. Drawing out a single, threadlike thought from the tumble of silvery hair, he placed it in the bowl. He swirled the substance inside, watching a picture appear on the surface of the basin.

The seventeen-year-old boy wandered along the unfamiliar street. The glazed look in his eyes and his unsteady steps testified that this boy was severely disoriented, possibly Confunded. The surroundings looked odd to him. He recognized various things here and there: that was the famous sign for the Leaky Cauldron, Ollivander's wand shop stood to his left, and off in the distance the gigantic marble façade of Gringotts bank glowered down at the rest of the street. None of the other shops looked familiar to him, though. What he knew as Eeylops Owl Emporium was labeled "Drimble's Fine Beasts," the Apothecary at the corner sold unicorn horns for only seventeen Knuts apiece, and Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was now an unsavory-looking restaurant. 

The youth himself seemed out of place. He wore odd, bluish slacks and a woolen knit shirt beneath the traditional black Hogwarts robes. His bright ginger hair was hidden beneath a pointed hat that was also part of the traditional Hogwarts uniform. The youth was obviously either a schoolboy or a recent graduate of Hogwarts; odd to see him here in September, when school had already begun. The wizards walking past him were dressed in cloaks and hats with long jackets and cravats. This startled the youth, who had never seen a cravat outside of his schoolbooks. Cravats certainly weren't in fashion these days, unless... 

He ran to a nearby building as though possessed, looking to search through the dustbins. If the charm had malfunctioned... Sorting through the various parchments, rotting foodstuffs, and other refuse, he found a battered copy of the Daily Prophet in a style he hadn't seen outside of the Hogwarts Library. The date at the top of the paper drew his eye as if by a Summoning Charm, and he nearly dropped the newspaper as he read it:

September 6, 1867

Dumbledore looked back up from the Pensieve and sighed again. He had made the decision, yes, and he was going to see it through, but it was truly difficult - one of the most difficult things he had ever had to do. His brow, already creased by age and experience, furrowed even more as he considered the shock he was going to give young Harry, and the possible repercussions the information might have for the lad. He deeply cared for Harry, more than the boy could ever know; this was one reason he had finally decided to tell the truth. Lies and half-truths were not the way to help others. He had learned at least this much during the last hundred-thirty-odd years. _Besides, the boy - no, he is becoming a young man, now - will be better prepared to face the trials to come if he knows the whole story._ Drawing another thought out of his temple, Dumbledore placed it in the Pensieve, and watched as another scene appeared.

The red-haired young man, now respectably (if inexpensively) dressed for his current surroundings, walked along the streets of a small town in Devon. He had spent the last few weeks working various odd jobs for money, and he could now support himself for several days, at least. One of these jobs had been as a copy boy at the offices of the Daily Prophet news, a position that had proven immensely useful. He knew now what had happened, and what he needed to do. He was not, however, certain where to find the house he sought, so he peered carefully at the numbers on the surrounding houses in between glances at the parchment in his hand. 

Finding the residence he was looking for, the boy swiftly ran up the steps and pulled the bell. The door was opened by an elderly lady - obviously a housekeeper or maid. She was tall, with a hooked nose and sharp black eyes, and the hair poking out from beneath her bonnet was black, with silver framing the edges. Her sour face looked as if she had just swallowed the juice of several lemons, and was analyzing the flavor for posterity.

"Well? What can I do for you?" she snapped, apparently too busy to care much about the strange youth on the doorstep. The boy quailed for a moment, and then regained his courage. 

"I'm looking for a Mr. Nicholas Flamel. I've heard that he lives here, and I need his help. I'm in trouble - deep trouble - and he's the only one I can ask." 

"Why should he want to see you?" the housekeeper snarled. Her disdainful gaze made it clear that she doubted her master would want to see an odd boy just out of school.

"Mrs. Snape?" called a voice out of a drawing room off the front hall, "Who is it?" The youth looked shocked, staring oddly at Mrs. Snape for a moment before realizing what he was doing and turning his eyes downward.

"Well, boy? Speak up!" Mrs. Snape glowered at the boy, challenging him to answer. 

"I'm... My..." For a moment, it seemed as if the boy would bolt. Then he seemed to gather up every ounce of determination he possessed, and he looked Mrs. Snape directly in the eye. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I wish to speak with Mr. Flamel about Alchemy."

The vision in the Pensieve rippled, finally refocusing on the same house several years later.

Dumbledore sat in Nicholas Flamel's laboratory, stirring a cauldron containing a noxious, smoking substance. He looked up at Flamel, who sat nearby with several vials, counting out a measure of Armadillo Bile.

"You know, Nicholas, that if this works, it will make twelve. Who knew that the blood of a dragon could be so useful?" 

Flamel chuckled, setting the vials on the table and turning to look at his young apprentice. "Apparently, you_ did. I never could have preformed these experiments without your assistance; your knowledge of potion-making is quite impressive."_

Dumbledore stroked his new-grown beard, smiling knowingly. "Well, my Potions Master at school was a rather... interesting person. I pretty much had to learn my potions well; if I hadn't, I might not have survived the class! Besides, you know I have some... prior experience."

"That's not all, Albus. You seem to have such an advanced understanding of so many subjects: Potions-making, Charms, Transfiguration... _You have made incredible strides since you first arrived here. Greater strides, I must say, than can be ascribed to your origins." The older man gave Dumbledore a sly look at this. "How have you managed to do it all?" Flamel looked inquisitively at Dumbledore, his brown eyes boring into the younger man._

Grinning mysteriously at Flamel, his eyes twinkling merrily, Dumbledore added the armadillo bile to the potion in the cauldron. The mixture turned green, and then white, and a glossy film quickly formed over the top of the liquid. Pulling this film from the cauldron with his ladle, he set it down on a nearby platter to cool. 

"Well, Mr. Flamel." Dumbledore said, "I think we've found that preservative coating we were looking for. That makes twelve uses for dragon's blood." Flamel, after a strange glance at Dumbledore, turned to the cauldron as well, looking pleased. Taking up the film, he raised it to the light. 

"Indeed we have. Good job, Albus." He set the film down and clapped Dumbledore on the shoulder. "Now, let's go down to dinner. Mrs. Snape has made a lovely roast for us; I think she's pleased that her son Septimius will be attending Hogwarts this autumn." He started walking down the corridor to the dining room, followed by Dumbledore. "I'm sure he'll have a grand time there; we all have such happy memories of Hogwarts." 

Dumbledore looked fondly at his friend and mentor, recalling a close friend from another time. As he looked, Flamel's face seemed to change, growing younger, smoother... his hair grew darker, nearly black, and it started sticking out in all directions. The square glasses Flamel wore became round and black, and the eyes behind the m changed from brown to green. 

"Albus?" Suddenly, Dumbledore returned to the present. Flamel was staring into his face, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you well? Do you need anything?"

Dumbledore pulled himself up, squaring his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, now. 

"You're right, Nicholas. I do have fond memories of Hogwarts - fond, and terrible.

"That's why I must go back."

The scene in the Pensieve swiftly changed, becoming darker, more ominous. Dumbledore saw himself, his hair and beard grown to their familiar sweeping length, aiming his wand at an unseen foe.

"Give up, Grindelwald. I can assure you that if you put down your wand, you will be taken into custody unharmed. Please, don't make me fight you!" The shadowy face of Dumbledore's opponent shook as he laughed, raising his wand to point it at the professor. He spoke, his raspy voice carrying the hint of a German accent.

"I am afraid not, mein herr_. If I were to so betray him, my Master would never allow me to survive. Once his kingdom has overrun the globe, he will destroy all who have opposed him. I would rather die now, at your hand, than face the wrath of the future ruler of the world."_ _Dumbledore tried once more to reason with the Dark wizard. _

"You know that you cannot trust your Dark Master; once he has finished this horrific campaign of bloodshed, whom shall he turn against next? The Gypsies, the Jews, the Catholics, soon he will be after all of Wizardkind as well. You must_ know this! If Hitler wins, if the Reich overruns the globe, the world will be drowned in the blood of millions."_

Grindelwald leered at his foe. "Nice poetry, mein freund_… for all the good it will do you. _Manus Peracrimortis!!" _A cadaverous, spectral hand, with clawlike fingers and talons three inches long, shot out of the Dark wizard's wand toward Dumbledore. Dumbledore sprang to the side, barely escaping the Dark Hand, which swooped around like a ghastly bird and seized Dumbledore by the face. Dumbledore grabbed the otherworldly wrist, its claws digging into the sides of his head; as he pulled futilely, he could feel his nose break beneath the Hand's unrelenting onslaught..._

Once again, the Pensieve's contents swirled. Faces appeared and disappeared faster and faster in the luminous mist. Various pictures could briefly be made out before blurring with others and returning to the eddying ether.

Dumbledore standing in front of a classroom full of students, transforming a desk into a horse ... morphed into Flamel, holding a scarlet egg out to Dumbledore, saying, "It's quite rare and valuable. Take care of it; Phoenixes can be hard to handle at times,"... 

Flamel's face turned into that of a bushy-haired young lady saying, "Come on! We need to study for our O.W.L.s, they're only three weeks away!" ... 

The face changed again, becoming a small man with beetle-black eyes, who said, "I know that Rubeus can be a han'ful at times, but yeh shouldn' have too much trouble with 'im. He's a softy, really, no matter what he looks like. Jus' keep 'im away from yer beasts fer now, 'cos he's a mite scared of 'em. Wonders if they'll hurt 'im." ... 

The man's face turned into that of an ancient-looking wizard with whispy, nearly transparent white hair. "I cannot go on, Albus. The deaths have been too much for me. I have resigned the post of Headmaster, and I ask you to replace me."

The barrage of images was interrupted by a knock on the door. Glancing upward suddenly, Dumbledore said, "Come." As the door opened, he removed the Pensieve from the table, taking it to the closet in which it was kept.

Dumbledore watched as Harry walked into his office, seeming ill-at-ease and slightly nervous. He pitied the student somewhat. Despite any assurances to the contrary, a call to the Headmaster's office had always called up worries about punishment (and would probably always do so). Dumbledore smiled at Harry, attempting to assuage the boy's fears.

"Ah, Harry. How are things? Have you been studying for your N.E.W.T.s?"

"Umm... yes, sir," said Harry, now looking slightly confused. Dumbledore supposed that, given the darkness of the times, this made sense. _I should probably dispense with the small talk and get to the crux of the matter._ Time, after all, was short.

"Good, good," he said, waving Harry toward the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down, please. I would like to speak with you."

Harry sat. Dumbledore slowly approached the desk as well, feeling every one of his hundred-odd years. At some times, he felt so much older than his age, and looking at the strapping young seventh-year across his desk, he acknowledged that this was one such time. _Has it really been this long...?_ He sat in his chair, and started speaking slowly and clearly.

"I'm certain, Harry, that you've noticed that I often have knowledge of your actions with your friends - often before you know them yourself." Visions of Sirius Black and a hippogriff named Buckbeak flashed before Dumbledore's eyes.

Harry looked startled for a moment, but nodded. "Yes, sir, I have. I've been wondering about it since first year - you remember, with the Mirror of Erised. I've always wondered how you knew I'd been there. I was so sure I hadn't seen you around."

Dumbledore smiled, remembering the shy young first-year sitting entranced at the Mirror's feet. Harry had grown much since then. "You had not. At the time, I believe I told you that I did not need a cloak to become invisible, did I not? This is true, but it is not the_ entire_ truth. The entire truth is that I knew you were going to be there before I even placed the mirror in the room. I knew where you and Ron were hiding in Hagrid's home, when he was being arrested during your second year, as well." This information seemed to startle Harry to no end. Dumbledore could imagine what Harry was thinking, and decided to allay the student's fears.

"No, Harry, I'm not a Seer. Nor have I ever had the power to read others' minds. I knew these things, quite simply, because I had already lived through them."

Awe and mystification flooded Harry's earnest young face, drawing his eyebrows toward the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"Harry, when I was in my seventh year at Hogwarts, my friends and I came upon an ancient, complicated, and quite dangerous spell. It was the _"Tempus Replicationis,"_ the time-bending charm. Using this spell, a wizard can create a portal to another time - any time in the past - and instantly step into that era. Wizarding historians used this charm in times past to make accurate notes on the great events of history. They would stand in the background of the wars and festivals of past eras, taking extensive notes, and when the incident in question had ended they could, hypothetically, cast the counterspell and return immediately to their time of origin.

"Unfortunately, no reliable counterspell has ever been devised. The historians used a spell which was often inaccurate, and they were sometimes left completely marooned in time. Eventually, the Ministry banned the use of this spell as too damaging to the fabric of time, and its existence is now only noted in several ancient, obscure books of history. After finding one of these, my dearest friend, in a moment of deep need, cast this spell so I could return and save your life."

Harry now looked beyond astonishment. Dumbledore knew that these revelations must be shocking to the youth, who was having his mentor's life rewritten before his eyes. Pulling himself together, Harry managed to stammer out a question.

"But - but if you were around when I did that stuff, that means you could be here _now,_ this year!" 

Dumbledore nodded. "I am indeed. In fact, I am in your year in school." Harry's face was screwed up in concentration. He was obviously trying to imagine who Dumbledore might be.

"Wait a second... Ron, Hermione, and I never told anybody about the Mirror, or about how we visited Hagrid's. How did - do - how'd you know?" Dumbledore smiled. Yes, Harry was growing perceptive indeed.

"I know what you were doing because I was there with you. I was with you, Harry, on the second night you visited the Mirror. I was with you as you searched the Forbidden Forest on Hagrid's suggestion. I have been your constant companion, and your greatest friend, ever since we first met, that day on the Hogwarts Express.

"Harry, I am Ron Weasley."


	2. Chapter 2: The Middle

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Tempus Fugit

The Middle…

As he rode the spiral staircase toward Professor Dumbledore's office, Harry found himself wondering why the Headmaster had summoned him. According to Professor McGonagall, the Headmaster had something pretty important to talk about. _Could there be news about Voldemort? He's been pretty quiet lately, though.... I haven't done anything serious enough for Professor Dumbledore to get involved._

Harry had been feeling awkward ever since the Divination lesson the previous Friday...

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"Tarot," said Professor Trelawney as she paced her incense-scented room, "is one of the most respected forms of divination used in modern times. Mr. Longbottom, please come speak to me once you've lost at least ten of the cards – you need a full deck for an accurate prediction. Now, as you've all read about the basics of tarot-based prediction in your textbooks, I want you to pair up and give each other a simple, three-card reading.

As usual, Harry and Ron teamed up for the project. Ron went first, drawing a five of pentacles, a Knave of staves, and a two of staves for Harry. After some initial joking, the two ignored the cards; they hadn't read the textbook, so they planned on making up the usual list of malady and misfortune. About twenty minutes later, Professor Trelawney called out for the groups to switch, so the other partner could take a reading.

When Harry picked up the cards, An odd, shivery feeling swept through him. It was as if a cold breeze had flown through the room, even though it was summer and all the windows were shut. His hands tingled as if he had bumped his funny bone. He shivered. Maybe,_ Harry thought, _I should pay attention to these ones.

__

Harry shuffled the deck, and pulled out three cards, setting them facedown on the desk, as Trelawney had instructed. He felt an odd sort of foreboding when he reached for the first one, but flipped it over anyway.

It was the Lovers, card; the picture had faded from many years of use, but he could see the faint outline of two naked figures – one male, one female – with an angelic-looking figure hovering between them. 

Harry turned the next card over, revealing an equally faded Magician card. The background had been bleached by wear from the usual golden yellow to an off-white beige; the majestic figure of the Magician, however, stood out brilliantly against the faded background. As Harry reached for the last card, another chill swept through him. He grasped the card firmly, as if afraid it may try to fly away, and turned it over.

Death grinned out from the card, the skeletal face white against the strong colors of the suit of black armor in which it rode.

Harry shook his head, banishing the memory. _It probably doesn't mean anything_. Reaching the door to the office, he stepped off the spiral staircase. He paused for a quick breath, thinking, _well, here we are_. Reaching up, he knocked on the thick, oak door.

"Come in, Harry," Professor Dumbledore called from inside. He entered, feeling a little nervous. He had loved this room since he first saw it second year; the whirring silver instruments fascinated him, and he always enjoyed a chance to see Fawkes. It was, however, the Headmaster's Office, and that carried with it a bit of… of _tension_.

As Harry entered, Professor Dumbledore was putting his Pensieve back in its cupboard. Harry eyed the pensieve a bit nervously. After that weird adventure last year, he had sworn never to touch the thing again. After it was in its place, Dumbledore turned to look at Harry. "Ah, Harry. How are things? Have you been studying for your N.E.W.T.s?"

"Umm... yes, sir," said Harry, feeling a bit confused. What _had_ Professor Dumbledore called him up here for? From what Professor McGonagall had said, he'd thought this was something urgent.

"Good, good," the Headmaster said, waving Harry toward the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down, please. I would like to speak with you."

Harry sat down, a vague sense of unease persisting despite Professor Dumbledore's attempts at small talk. He was again noticing how much older the Headmaster looked since first year: there were lines and wrinkles on Dumbledore's face Harry was sure hadn't been there seven years earlier, and Dumbledore looked incredibly tired as he walked over to his desk. He sank down with a sigh of relief, and began talking.

"I'm certain, Harry, that you've noticed that I often have knowledge of your actions with your friends - often before you know them yourself." Dumbledore's light-blue eyes twinkled as he said this. 

Harry was a bit startled. This _is what he wanted to talk about? _He noticed that Dumbledore seemed to want a response, so he nodded. "Yes, sir, I have. I've been wondering about it since first year - you remember, with the Mirror of Erised. I've always wondered how you knew I'd been there." He thought back to those days first year – sitting entranced in front of the vast-seeming mirror, staring at his parents. He had never seen or heard anything unusual while he sat there, not once. "I was so sure I hadn't seen you around." 

Professor Dumbledore smiled, seeming to recall a happy memory. "You had not. At the time, I believe I told you that I did not need a cloak to become invisible, did I not?" Harry nodded. "This is true, but it is not the_ entire_ truth. The entire truth is that I knew you were going to be there before I even placed the mirror in the room. I knew where you and Ron were hiding in Hagrid's home, when he was being arrested during your second year, as well." 

Harry was shocked to hear this. He'd suspected that Professor Dumbledore knew where he and Ron were hiding, but how could the Headmaster ever have known where he was going to be in advance? _Is he some sort of… of psychic or something? Maybe he can see the future!_

Dumbledore's face shifted subtly, his expression becoming more sympathetic. "No, Harry, I'm not a Seer. Nor have I ever had the power to read others' minds. I knew these things, quite simply, because I had already lived through them."

Harry was more confused than ever. _Lived through them…? What does he mean?_ His eyebrows flew up. _Had he been using a time-turner or something? _He grew more and more amazed as Professor Dumbledore explained the _"Tempus Replicationis"_ charm. _Does this mean what I _think_ it means?_

Dumbledore's description of the spell drew to an end. "…My dearest friend, in a moment of deep need, cast this spell so I could return and save your life."

Harry was astounded. He tried to make sense of it all, but it wouldn't come. "But - but if you were around when I did that stuff, that means you could be here _now,_ this year!" 

Dumbledore nodded. "I am indeed. In fact, I am in your year in school." Harry immediately wondered who Professor Dumbledore could be. _He's in my year? Who could he be – Morag McDougal? Justin Finch-Fletchley? Draco!?_ Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He glanced at the Headmaster, a question written all over his face.

"Wait a second... Ron, Hermione, and I never told anybody about the Mirror, or about how we visited Hagrid's. How did - do - how'd you know?" _This time-travel stuff has given me headaches since Third Year._

Dumbledore smiled at the question. "I know what you were doing because I was there with you. I was with you, Harry, on the second night you visited the Mirror. I was with you as you searched the Forbidden Forest on Hagrid's suggestion. I have been your constant companion, and your greatest friend, ever since we first met, that day on the Hogwarts Express.

"Harry, I am Ron Weasley."

Harry just stared at Dumbledore for a moment. His mind seemed to have stopped working, and his mouth was hanging open. He couldn't talk - he couldn't even think. Then, he began shaking his head – slowly, at first, but getting faster and faster. "No. You're joking. You have to be joking. You can't be – it's not…"

"Harry, I know this must be a shock to you." Dumbledore leaned toward Harry, concern in his light-blue eyes. "I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you this before. I have wanted to ever since you were able to understand it. The first time I ever saw you, that day seventeen years ago, I had to struggle; to force myself not reveal anything in front of Minerva – Professor McGonagall," he said, noting Harry's expression. "I knew that things would be horrible for you – had _already_ been horrible for you, and would only get worse; but I could not change what had already happened. You have heard this before; time is too fragile a thing to be handled carelessly. We cannot try to change what we have already experienced."

Harry had gone silent. The shock of Dumbledore's revelation had lessened somewhat, but he was still trying to work things out. He looked at Dumbledore, his eyes barely able to show the turmoil roiling within, and asked, "How? Can you tell me how it happened?"

Dumbledore glanced toward his cupboard, where the Pensieve could just barely be seen through the cracked-open door, and said, "There is an even better way, Harry. Let me show you."

* * *

It was nearly midnight by the time Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower. Professor Dumbledore had shown him several memories in his Pensieve, and then they had spoken for hours about Dumbledore's past. As he entered, Hermione and Ron glanced up from the class notes each had been working on. From what he could see of the papers on the table, Harry guessed that Hermione had been working on Ancient Rune translations while Ron studied a History of Magic manuscript. Because they were in their seventh and final year in school, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had been studying incredibly hard for their N.E.W.T.s. At the dazed, slightly horrified look on Harry's face, both of them stood up. 

Ron ran up to Harry first, his concern as plain as the freckles on his face. He asked, somewhat worriedly, "What is it, Harry? What did Professor Dumbledore say? Are you in trouble? Was it something about – about You-Know-Who?" Even after seven years, Ron still had trouble saying Voldemort's name.

Harry couldn't meet his gaze. _Ron..._ He mumbled something about Quidditch and, overcome with emotion, ran up to the seventh-year boys' dormitory.

Throwing himself onto his four-poster, Harry had to fight to keep himself from crying. _Ron… Oh, my god, Ron…_ He tried to shake himself out of it. _This is stupid. Why in the world am I crying _now_; Ron isn't even gone yet. I haven't cried since I was a kid!_ Nothing helped. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop himself. Everything in the room reminded him of Ron. When he looked at the windowsill, he saw the small phrase, "Chudley Cannons ROCK - R. Weasley, 1995" that Ron had carved in his fifth year. His ears were still ringing from the scolding Ron had gotten when Professor McGonagall found it. Glancing in his trunk, he saw Quidditch Through the Ages, one of Ron's favourite books from the school library. In the corner, he saw Ron's Omnioculars (which he still hadn't forgiven Harry for buying him, even after three years). Harry couldn't stop thinking about his friend, even though every thought, every memory, was pure agony. _In one week, I'm going to lose my best friend… the first friend I've ever had… and I can't do _anything_ to save him!_ He'd never be able to sit in the Three Broomsticks with Ron again, sipping butterbeer and looking over the day's purchases. He'd never be able to see Ron's mischievous grin again, never play another game of chess or one-on-one Quidditch with him, never hear him bickering with Hermione over this or that…

He couldn't stop himself. The last floodgates fell. Harry Potter, "The Boy Who Lived," the hero who had four times managed to escape the greatest Dark Wizard of the age, the star who had only lost 3 Quidditch matches in all his seven years of school – Harry Potter broke down and wept like a child. 

Some time later, Harry heard Ron and the rest of his roommates come to bed. He didn't say anything, just pretended to be asleep. He didn't feel he was ready to face any of them, especially Ron. He just tried to keep quiet until he was sure they were asleep. Harry cried himself to sleep that night. As he slept, he had the oddest dream...

__

Everything was dark. At first, Harry didn't know what was happening; the blackness surrounding him was so complete, so all consuming, that Harry might have been dead for all he could discern. Suddenly, though, he heard a voice – a cold, high voice that sent chills through him.

"Is everything prepared, Lucius?

A light flickered on, revealing a tall man, black-robed, masked, and ominous. The light streaming from his wand revealed a vast stone cavern filled with similarly hooded figures. The man kneeled before another as he replied, "Very nearly, My Lord. We will need another week at most; then we can sweep down on the unsuspecting fools." 

The figure in front of this man chuckled coldly. He was wearing sable robes so dark that they seemed to melt into the shadows around him, causing his pallid hands to stand out eerily. His face was hidden in shadow, but the glint of blood-red eyes could be seen deep in the darkness. 

"Excellent. You have done well, my faithful servant." The figure placed a hand on Lucius's shoulder, pulling him to a standing position. "Continue the preparations. Once we are ready, nothing – and nobody - will be able to stop us."

A sudden shock of pain flashed through Harry's scar, causing him to moan and toss fitfully in his sleep. The pain subsided soon, however, and Harry had forgotten everything by the time he had woken up the next morning. 

Harry avoided Ron for much of the next few days – the sight of him was just too painful. He wasn't rude about it – the painful days of his fourth year had taught him that much, at least. He just tried to stay away from the places he knew Ron generally hung out, and didn't automatically work with him in any of the classes they had together, like he normally did.

His mind was wandering, as well. Often, Harry would find himself thinking about his talk with Dumbledore, or the scenes the Headmaster had shown him in his Pensieve. Mostly, though, his mind was drawn back to the reading that he had given Ron the previous Friday. _The Lovers, the Magician, and Death,_ he thought,_ what can it all mean?_ At first, Harry didn't think anybody noticed his distraction, until the particularly vicious Potions lesson Wednesday morning. 

That day, Snape had shown even more disdain toward Harry than usual. When Harry accidentally spilled his Salamander tears all over the table, Snape swooped down on him immediately.

"Potter," he snapped, "Ten points from Gryffindor for inattention. Now get your mind out of the clouds, clean up that mess, and finish your potion before I make it twenty!" His cold, black eyes glinted maliciously as he watched Harry fumbling to complete his Dissembling Draught swiftly. "One would think that, especially given the… troubled… nature of recent times, you of all people would know to remain attentive. Ahh, well…." He would have continued, but at that moment, Neville's cauldron overflowed, causing his table to warp quite dangerously. 

Once Snape had passed, Hermione (who was working at the same table as Harry) leaned over and whispered, "Harry, what's wrong with you? You haven't been yourself since that talk with Professor Dumbledore. You've been so distant lately – Ron says you haven't talked to him in days. What did Professor Dumbledore _say _to you?"

Harry felt like he was going to burst with the secret. "I can't tell you, Hermione. I can't tell anyone. Professor Dumbledore made me promise to keep it a secret." He couldn't meet her eyes. Hermione scrutinized him for a moment, then slowly nodded.

Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. He didn't like lying to his friends, but he had to. _I can't tell her about Ron… It'd be too hard on her… Besides, she's always said not to mess with this sort of thing._ He still hadn't forgotten what Hermione had said back in third year. _'Nobody's supposed to change time, nobody!'_ Everything Dumbledore had told him about – Ron's sacrifice, his past as Dumbledore, all of it – had already happened in some way. Ron _had_ to go back; Dumbledore had explained that firmly in the office. If Harry interfered now, if he tried to change things, who knew what could happen? 

Meanwhile, Hermione was still looking at him with understanding. "I understand, Harry. It's just … I…." She foundered for a moment, then leaned forward, an intent look in her eye. "Harry, Ron and I are worried about you. You're being so quiet, and you've been trying to avoid him, and everything – don't think we don't notice." Her soft brown eyes were widened in concern. "I haven't seen you like this since fourth year, since…" She didn't finish the sentence. Harry was grateful. They both remembered what had happened their fourth year, and how Harry still felt about it. Harry tried to change the subject

"I know, Hermione, I know. Tell me, does this say six teaspoons of powdered bee stings or eight?" They spent the rest of the period finishing their potion, but although Hermione didn't bring the subject up again, Harry could see her glancing at him every once in a while. Even as Snape took points off him for spilling the badger's urine later in the hour, Harry's mind still wasn't on his class work. _Hermione knows something's up. What can I do?_ Looking sideways at his friend, who was helping Neville measure out his porcupine quills, Harry knew she wouldn't stop trying to find out. After seven years, he had learned that Hermione was nothing if not persistent. He had to keep her from digging. Suddenly, he had an idea. _I may not be able to stop her, but what if she can help me?_

In the hallway after class, Harry pulled Hermione off to the side. "Hermione, I need you to do something for me. You've been reading the old history texts for your N.E.W.T.s lately. Have you found any strange manuscripts? Something about ancient research spells?"

Hermione gave Harry an odd look. "No, I haven't… Harry, are you really all right? What _did _Professor Dumbledore talk to you about?" 

Harry grabbed Hermione by her arms. "Listen to me, Hermione, this is _really_ important. If you find any scrolls about the History of Magic that mention strange spells, spells for research, _remember them_. I'm sorry, I know how odd it sounds, but I can't tell you any more about it. You _have to remember them_. All right?" Hermione could only manage a stunned nod before Harry ran off to class.

Harry still wasn't paying attention in Transfiguration two days later. Ron was two desks ahead of him, studiously leaning over his desk. He had taken to returning Harry's silences lately; the two friends seemed to be drawing apart, slowly but surely. Ignoring the newt that scurried across his own desk, Harry stared at the back of Ron's head. 

__

I'm destroying our friendship, sulking like this, he realized. _Should I be trying to pull myself away from him?_ He decided to talk to Ron about it later that day. Just then, while McGonagall was across the room, leaning over Lavender Brown's parchment and checking her transfigured newt, Hermione leaned over to talk to him and whispered, "Harry, we need to talk. After class." Harry turned toward Hermione, surprised, before nodding. _What could she need to talk to me about?_ He was about to ask her, but he saw Professor McGonagall looking suspiciously at him. He quickly returned to his own newt, which he was supposed to be turning into a Salamander.

During the break after class, Hermione pulled Harry to the most remote corner of the common room. Looking around as if to check for eavesdroppers, she leaned close to him and whispered, "Harry, I found the spell – I wasn't sure at first, but now I know. Who's it going to happen to? _Who is going back in time?"_

Harry nearly collapsed into one of the red armchairs, weary from the stress of the last several days. He was surprised and impressed that Hermione had found the spell so soon. _She hasn't researched anything _this _quickly since that Skeeter business fourth year!_ He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he realized the trouble he was in. He had a dilemma on his hands – how much could he tell Hermione? How much was she supposed to know? _I should be careful – if what she knows changes something…_

"I can't tell you, Hermione. Professor Dumbledore told me…"

Hermione interrupted him. "I know what he told you. Harry, just tell me – _is it Ron?_ You don't need to tell me why, or where, but I just have to know… is Ron the one?" 

Harry knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Hermione had noticed how he was avoiding Ron, and she _was_ still one of the smartest students in the year. He suddenly felt tired. _I can't keep this secret any longer. I feel like I'm going to explode. Besides, if anybody deserves to know, it's her._ Ron and Hermione had liked each other since their fourth year, and even though they had never actually dated, there was still a deep connection between them – one that they denied even to themselves. He sighed, a defeated sort of sigh. "Hermione, it's a bit more complicated than you may think…"

He told her everything. Every single thing he had learned in Professor Dumbledore's office, the odd Tarot reading… every twist and turn, he laid it out for her. By the end, she looked as shocked as he had felt, and he could only wonder what was going through her mind. She stared at him, eyes wide. "Harry, this is… I can't believe it." 

Harry barked a humorless laugh. "That's how I felt, but Dumbledore showed me in his Pensieve. Trust me, it's true." He looked at Hermione worriedly, feeling deflated and tired. "And that's the problem. I don't think I can let it happen."

"Well," Hermione said after a pause, "There's one thing you might be able to do…"

* * *

As Harry approached the door to Dumbledore's office, he once again tried to sort through what he was feeling. He was glad Hermione had suggested he talk to Dumbledore – this might be just what he needed. He knocked, and the Headmaster called, "Come in." 

Harry entered, and saw that Dumbledore had been sitting at his desk, looking over some parchments. He put them away as Harry entered, and faced the student. "How can I help you, Harry?"

Everything flooded out of Harry at once. "I can't do it, Professor. I can't let you send Ron back. It feels like I'm condemning him to death – I can't… I can't lose him like that." 

Dumbledore looked at Harry sympathetically. "I understand, Harry. Believe me, I wish this didn't have to happen to you. But, Harry – you mustn't worry about Ron. If I remember right, you had a rather odd experience in Divination about a week ago, did you not?"

Harry nodded. "I had to give Ron a reading. I pulled the Lovers card, the Magician, and Death." Dumbledore leaned back, considering Harry's words, steepling his fingers as Harry went on. "It was weird… do you know what it means?"

"I do." Dumbledore nodded his head, leaning forward again. "Those cards show Ron's future.

"Harry, you must understand that these cards aren't often literal. The Death card doesn't mean death itself." Harry felt relief flooding through him at the Headmaster's words; even though he had known Ron couldn't die, the reassurance was a relief. "Death, in this case, means that there will be a drastic change. The old life will die, making way for something new.

"The Magician card represents Ron's new life. He will study with great masters, such as Nicholas Flamel. He will become identified with a school," and at this Dumbledore's eyes regained their familiar twinkle, "and spend many of his days there. Most of all, he will live to fulfill his highest potential – potential that I have yet to reach again in such a powerful way.

"The Lovers… ahh, that is an enigmatic card. This card can refer to love itself, or a facet of love, or even to a difficult choice that one must make. To my mind, it means both in this instance.

"Harry, you and Ron love each other, beyond a doubt." Harry blinked, surprised. Dumbledore saw the reaction, and smiled as he went on, "It is a brotherly love, rather than a romantic one, but it is no less powerful for that. Believe me when I say that the friendship, the _love_ which you two share, will be a shaping force in Ron's life for many years; it remains one to this day." Dumbledore's eyes glistened moistly for a moment, and Harry almost thought the Headmaster was going to cry in front of him. After a moment, however, Dumbledore shook his head and dabbed at his eyes with a large, purple silk handkerchief. "Anyway, as for the choice…

"I have told you before, I think, that we must all face a choice between what is easy and what is right. Ron will soon have to make that choice for himself; and, I remember, that the choice was a hard one.

"Now, I think I know what may help you feel better, Harry." Dumbledore reached into his desk and pulled out another pack of Tarot cards. "If you would, I'd like you to give me another reading. Is that all right?" Harry paused for a moment, then nodded. Dumbledore went on, "I want you to reach into this deck and choose one card – only one - for me." Harry shivered, reached out, and took the deck. Again, he felt the shiver pass though him. He grasped a card, and pulled it out – it was the Star, a young woman at a pool with gigantic constellations in the background.

"The Star," Dumbledore said, "A very powerful card. This card points toward one of the most powerful forces in the human heart – a force that can do miracles. Hope.

"Harry, I've lived a good life. A full life. I have seen many beautiful, wonderful things, and I've known dear friends whom I would give my life for." His eyes again shone with concern for Harry as he leaned over the old, claw-footed desk. "You needn't worry about how Ron will deal with his new life. He will survive, and he will flourish. What's more, his life will have a great purpose, a hope for the future. Harry, do you know what has kept me through all these long years? What I have held to whenever my courage has wavered?"

Harry shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.

"Whenever I have been tempted to give up, I told myself that _I had a job to do._ There was a reason I was sent back; perhaps not what I had thought at first, but a reason. I had to survive so that I might be Albus Dumbledore. I had to discover the uses for dragon's blood – uses that have enriched many lives. I needed to defeat Grindelwald in 1945 so peace could return to the earth, at least for a while. I had to be here_ to save you._ If Ron had given up, if I had failed, then all would have been lost – but he didn't. I didn't. Besides," and here the familiar twinkle returned to Dumbledore's eyes, "The Chudley Cannons managed to win the League Championship in 1892. It was really a favor, sending me back to see my favorite team's final victory."

Harry sat back in his chair, his eyes tearing up so badly he could barely see. "Professor, I… I…" 

"I know, Harry, I know." Dumbledore said in a voice rougher than Harry had ever heard. Harry didn't know how it happened, but somehow the two of them ended up hugging, tears running down both of their faces in clear rivers. 

Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud crash. In staggered a tall man in a hooded cloak, wet with blood. He stumbled, then thudded to the floor.

"The Dark Lord…" Professor Snape's voice rasped out of the hood, "in Hogsmeade!" 


End file.
